Vampire
by DoctorNicotine
Summary: Woot, look at that creative title. You jelly?  Just a story I wrote for dA awhile back and I thought I'd put it up here too. Super long so spliting into 8 chapters. Sherlock/John. Some Sherlock/Irene. M for blood and killing. Lots of killing.
1. Chapter 1

John panted for breath as he ran after Sherlock's quickly disappearing figure.

"Hurry John!" Sherlock called back down the empty street, his voice echoing off the dark buildings until John could barely tell where it was coming from.

He forced himself to run a little faster, but it was no use. A few moments later he heard a scream from down an alley father ahead.

"Sherlock! Oh god oh god!" John gasped out as loud as he could manage. He started to sprint for the unlit alley.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" John jogged down the street, ignoring the dank puddles he was splashing through. He felt his panic rising as his eyes adjusted to the dark and he saw a figure hunched over another shape near a brick wall. John slowly reached for the gun hidden in his jacket. Knowing he no longer had the element of surprise, he walked as quickly as he could to the figure and held the gun inches from its head.

"Turn around slowly and I swear I won't kill you. For the moment at least." John growled.

"I assure you there is no need for that John." Sherlock's baritone voice murmured.

"Sherlock? Jesus Christ, what are you doing?" John fumbled around in his pockets for a torch. He flipped it on and Sherlock shrunk back, pressing against the brick wall.

Ignoring Sherlock, John shone his torch onto the culprit lying on the ground.

"Oh shit-" John muttered, kneeling down.

The man had the most terrified expression on his face that John had ever seen and his neck was torn open, blood spilling out onto the cobblestones, staining his clothes. John swore he saw him twitch once more before his breathing finally stopped.

John stood up slowly, knowing there was nothing he could to do help.

"What. Did. You. Do. Sherlock?" he growled, his fist clenched, his eyes never leaving the body on the ground.

Sherlock looked up at John's face and stepped away from the wall.

"I'm afraid you'll have to elaborate John." he stated, his voice perfectly calm.

In a flash, John grabbed Sherlock's collar and shoved him against the alley wall. Sherlock smirked at him with a look that said 'What took you so long?'

"You know bloody well what I'm talking about! What did you do to this man?" he forced his voice not to shake. "How did you manage to-" he choked, unable to finish.

Sherlock didn't answer; he simply stared at John's face with what he could only describe as rapture. John shivered at the intensity of his pale eyes.

"How..." he dropped his hands, turning back to the body lying in a crimson puddle.

Sherlock was suddenly on the opposite side of him, close but not quite touching.

"I really don't think you want to know."

John jumped a little but managed to stay calm.

"I really think I do." he choked out.

Sherlock pressed his nose to his neck and John hissed in surprise at how cold and wet it was. 'Wait?' John thought. 'Wet? That can't be right, why would his nose be wet?'

"But that's no fun." Sherlock cut into his thoughts and nuzzled closer. "I want you to guess." he whispered.

Sherlock opened his mouth on the side of John's neck, his teeth scraping his skin. John shivered at how sharp his they seemed to feel.

"No..." he murmured.

John could practically hear Sherlock smirk between kisses.

"I want you to think John. Really think. I never eat, or sleep, or hardly stop to rest at all. Think about it." he prompted.

"It's a little hard-" John gasped, "hard to think with you kissing me like this."

Sherlock looked up, grinning madly.

"On the contrary. I am helping your body release adrenaline, thus speeding up your thought process." he returned to John's neck, now nipping playfully.

John groaned quietly, lightly trying to push Sherlock away. Suddenly Sherlock stopped, lifting his head up and shoving John away, but not letting go of his arms quite yet. He sniffed the night air a few times, and then scowled, pulling John back to his side.

"Lestrade and Mycroft will be here soon."

Sure enough, a few moments later a wailing police car screeched to a stop in front of the alley with one of Mycroft's infamous black compact cars quickly following suit.

Lestrade jumped out of the black car and told the driver to turn so that his headlamps were shining down the alley.

John saw Sherlock flinch away at the light, but he still managed to keep his cool, nodding coldly at Lestrade as he jogged over to them.

"William Parks. 35. Photographer. Thief. Murderer." The consulting detective licked his lips slowly. "Type AB positive, if you were wondering."

Lestrade glared at him. "I was not, in fact." he glanced at Parks' body as Mycroft walked up.

"Why did you have to kill him Sherlock?" Mycroft sighed. "Just another huge mess for me to deal with. Or is that exactly why you do it?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I was hungry." he muttered. "And he deserved it."

"Don't be childish." Mycroft chided. "You need to feed more selectively. I can't keep cleaning up your messes every other day."

John groaned and leaning against the wall, feeling faint. "Shit, you know too?"

"Of course I know, Doctor Watson. I am his brother." Mycroft scoffed. "Well, not in the biological sense."

"Alright, let's not overwhelm him." Lestrade cut in. "Sherlock, can we trust you to get John home safe?"

"What are you implying?" Sherlock growled.

"Nothing, just-"

"Yes, you can trust me. Come on John." He grabbed John's arm and dragged him toward the car Lestrade and Mycroft had come in. "Let's go home."

Dazed, John could do nothing but follow behind and before he knew it he was sitting next to Sherlock in the back of a car racing toward their flat.

"Why?" John muttered staring out the window. He heard Sherlock slid over the press up against him.

"Why? Why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock paused and John felt a pang of surprise. Sherlock hardly ever had to think before he said something. "I don't know."

"Don't lie to me." John growled, turning around to look Sherlock straight in the eye, smirking in satisfaction for just a second when he flinched. "Don't you ever dare lie to me."

Sherlock still didn't answer.

"Fine. Then why did you have to kill him? Will Parks."

"You've been working with me John. You know how many people he's killed, this was the only way."

"Sherlock, he wasn't even armed!"

Sherlock shrunk back into his seat. "I... couldn't help it... I'm sorry, I'm just a monster. I'm sorry." John saw him wipe his eyes on his sleeve. "Fuck, I can't even cry!"

John let his face soften and he put a hand over Sherlock's shoulder, unsure what to do.

"Let's just... Start at the beginning. Tell me everything."

Sherlock took a shaky breath and began his story.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock Holmes slowly looked around the dark alley. He glanced up. No lights in any house, not even a star was shining. He took of his hat and ran his hand through his short hair that was just beginning to curl.

"Why the hell am I even here?" he cursed.

It was his twenty fifth birthday and his so-called friends had taken him out to a bar to celebrate, then dumped him in an alley telling him that a very special woman would meet him soon. But it was far too dark, and even though he was six feet tall and at the peak of his physical fitness he still felt unnerved by the lack of light.

"Hello," a voice purred in his ear.

"Dear God!" Sherlock jumped up, almost crashing into a crate that was lying on the ground.

The woman in front of him laughed quietly. "Your oaths are useless here."

She began to circle around him, sniffing loudly. "You're a rather fascinating creature, aren't you?"

Sherlock was frozen with an unnameable primeval fear, and he couldn't even talk.

"I'm Irene, in case you were wondering." She stopped in front of his face. Even in the heels Sherlock assumed she was wearing under her full skirt she barely reached his neck. "But enough about me. Today is about you, Sherlock." She started walking around him again. "You're five-and-twenty today, am I right?"

Sherlock nodded.

"An author, correct?"

Sherlock nodded again.

"And type O positive. Mmmm..."

Sherlock flinched, staring at her. "W-what?"

"Your blood type, silly." she wrapped her arms around his neck. "One of my favourites!"

Irene kissed him full on the lips, using her tongue to feel every inch of his mouth. Sherlock was intoxicated, he couldn't pull away.

Slowly, Irene moved down to Sherlock's neck, and he couldn't help but gasp as she started to nip at the loose flesh. Suddenly, she bit down, hard. Sherlock gasped, trying to cry out in pain. A few seconds later she let him go, watching him fall to the ground, his blood soaking into a puddle.

"Tell you what kid," she licked her lips. "I like you, so I think I'll let you live. Does that sound good?"

Sherlock was paralyzed, he couldn't even breathe. He could feel his eyes slowly closing. The last thing he remembered was Irene skipping down the street singing: "Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you..."

When he finally woke it was almost morning and he could hear the city waking up. He struggled to his hands and knees. Every cell of his body felt like it was burning. But it wasn't a heat kind of burn; it was a freezing burn, not unlike rolling in snow completely naked.

He shivered and coughed up a glob off blood. He was hardly thinking as he curled back up under a mess of crates and newspapers.

Sherlock opened his eyes. The full moon was shining down into the alley, brightly illuminating everything around him. He realized must have been sleeping all day. He shakily sat up and pulled out his stopwatch out of his coat pocket before remembering that he hadn't wound it and wouldn't have the right time. Sighing, he rubbed his face with his hands. He felt so thirsty. Breathing deeply, he scented something amazing coming from an open window above his head. Sherlock quickly jumped up and began pacing towards the front of the building. It was a brothel, and several dirty looking women were outside smoking thin cigarettes. He walked past them, still sniffing deeply. He quickly paid the man who seemed to be in charge, and raced up the stairs to stare several open bedroom doors. Closing his eyes, he inhaled and started blindly walking towards a door. There was a woman inside, sitting in front of a mirror, brushing her hair. He walked silently towards her. She wasn't particularity beautiful, she was rather plain, but the sight of her made Sherlock pant with excitement. He placed a hand on her shoulder and she screamed, spinning around.

"Oh! I didn't see you some in, you gave me a fright!"

She turned back to her mirror, then back at Sherlock, then back again.

"Why don't you appear in my mirror? Is this some sort of trick?" her voice was shaking horribly.

Sherlock ran for the door and shut it quietly, grinning madly and showing his elongated canines. The woman started to scream but was quickly cut off as Sherlock bit into her neck, sucking as rapidly as he could.

Five minutes later he had drunk his fill and he threw her onto the bed, completely lifeless. He looked down at his hands disgusted, like they belonged to someone else.

"I see you have a type already."

Sherlock spun around to see Irene perched on the windowsill, her head tilted, watching him curiously.

"Not many people develop a specific type as quickly as you do. Fascinating." she breathed, then sniffed. "AB positive. Full of angst and misery." she grinned. "Figures."

"What the hell did you do to me?" Sherlock rasped.

Irene gasped dramatically. "Is that any way to talk to a lady?" she gracefully jumped down from her window and glided towards Sherlock. She put her hands on either side of his head and moved dangerously close to his lips.

"Welcome to my little world, Sherlock Holmes." she murmured.

Irene jumped back, laughing wildly, and Sherlock pushed down the urge to reach out for her.

"Welcome." She whispered before jumping out the window.

Sherlock rushed for her, but it was too late, Irene was already sprinting down the street.


	3. Chapter 3

"So I've been in hiding ever since, only killing when I need to. It was difficult until my great-nephew joined the police force and ever since then his descendants have been helping me cover my tracks by taking minor government positions. Mycroft is my protector at the moment and Lestrade just got forced into it by a _personal _mistake. And I haven't seen Irene since." he finished, settling back against his chair by the fireplace of 221B Baker Street.

"You have questions." Sherlock said, not as a question, but a statement.

John sat across from him, stunned. When he finally found his voice all he could think to ask was:

"Have you ever... changed any one? Like Irene did?"

Sherlock stared at the floor. "No." he muttered.

"Are you lying to me?"

"Yes." he sighed. "I have changed people. People I couldn't bear to kill, most of them soon after I changed, and people I cared about, who I couldn't bear to see die. But most of them couldn't handle it. They either didn't survive the process or the change twisted their minds so horribly that I had no choice but to..." he stopped, choking up.

John didn't know what to do. How on earth are you supposed to comfort a killer?

"How often do you need to eat?" John asked, not knowing what else to say. "And why do you need to kill? Couldn't you get blood some other way?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Depends. Mostly once a month, but sometimes I get cravings and I have to feed far more than that." he shuddered. "William Parks was giving me into that craving. And I have tried alternatives to killing, blood banks, hospitals, dead people." he grimaced. "Nothing is the same, it only makes me hungrier."

John rubbed his forehead. "What about what how you acted with me after you killed Parks? What was that?" he whispered.

Sherlock blushed deeply; well, as deep as he could with his almost translucent skin.

"I was still running on the craving, I was feeling desperate and hungry and I just gave in." he growled the last part, clearly ashamed. John decided to change the subject as best he could.

"How-how old are you Sherlock?"

"What is today?"

"November 20th, 2011." John added the year just to be sure Sherlock knew what decade it was.

"Then..." he paused and his face softened. "150 exactly. My birthday was yesterday."

John ran a hand through his hair, shocked. "And you don't look a day over thirty." he whistled.

"Twenty five."

"Sorry?"

"I was twenty five when she changed me. Only twenty five." Sherlock whispered.

John grabbed his hand, making Sherlock flinch and pull away. John quickly dropped it.

"Sorry, I-"

"No! Don't be sorry John, it's just-" he dug his fingernails into his arm, clearly trying to restrain himself. "I'm still craving, and I can't risk anything."

"I understand."

John stood up, looking down at Sherlock.

"I'm going to bed now. This is all a bit much and I just need some sleep. Is there anything you need?"

Sherlock never looked up at him. "No. No, I'm fine."

"Alright." John slowly made his way up to his bedroom, knowing Sherlock would be watching him the whole way.

As soon as Sherlock heard John's bedroom door creak shut he jumped from his chair and quickly wrote a note and left it where John would find it when he woke up in the morning. It was too dangerous for him to stay in the flat, and he knew just where he could go.

Ignoring his coat and scarf he strode out of 221 Baker Street into the cold night air, shooting obscene gestures at Mycroft's security cameras as he left.

Hours later, John woke from a horrific nightmare with a jolt. He was sobbing and confused. Where was Sherlock? He was always there to comfort and hold him almost no matter what. Slowly he remembered what had happened last night. Was Sherlock embarrassed about what he did in the alleyway? John wouldn't blame him if he was.

He glanced at the clock by his bed, groaning. It was 5:30 am and there was no way he was going back to sleep now.

Stretching, he shuffled into the kitchen to make his morning cup of tea.

Pausing, mug in hand, he saw a note stuck to the kettle on the stove. Curious, he tore it off and glanced over it quickly.

"John-

By the time you read this I will be long gone. I just need to sort some things out and I don't know when I'll be back.

Don't bother calling Mycroft, he saw me leave. I'm sure he'll be over soon after you wake up. Predictable as ever.

Your friend,

Sherlock Holmes." he signed with a flourish.

Sure enough Mycroft Holmes arrived after ten minutes of frantic pacing from John. Not bothering to knock, he let himself in and strode into the living room, surprised to see John fully dressed and looking ready to rush out the door at a moment's notice.

"Have you heard anything?" John demanded.

"Nothing." Mycroft shrugged. "But that's nothing new. He often disappears like this when he has a craving, leaving me to clean up the trail of bodies."

John continued his pacing, the floorboards squeaking under his bare feet.

"But this is different. He's confused and hurt and feeling guilty and it's all my fault. We have to find him before he does something stupid!"

Mycroft looked at him with pity shining in his eyes. "There's nothing we can do except wait for him to come home."

"Well I can't do that." John rushed for the door, pulling on his coat, ignoring Mycroft trying to call after him.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock trudged through the freezing rain with his head down, muttering to himself. He knew exactly where he needed to go. He looked up every few moments to check what street he was on, though it was pointless, he knew perfectly well where he was going. He noticed a woman glance sideways at him as he continued muttering, and then clutch her purse closer to her side. He scowled at her and started walking faster.

His mind was racing with ideas, but his thoughts kept going back to John. What would he think if he knew what Sherlock was planning to do? He shook his head violently. He couldn't think about that, it was too late.

He paused, glancing up at the building on his right. He had been so deep in thought he had almost walked past his goal. His face contorted into a cross between a scowl and a smirk.

"Amazing." he couldn't help but whisper. "All these years later and it still hasn't changed."

Trying to shake the water out of his hair, he made his way into the same brothel he had 150 years ago.

~ _Sorry, I wrote this before I found out brothels are illegal in London. Just ignore my inaccuracy…_


	5. Chapter 5

John ran through the freezing rain with his head high, dialing and redialing Sherlock's mobile phone number. Where the hell could he be?

Glancing up from his phone, he saw a woman in a red Victorian-like dress almost skipping through the rain. Curious, he began to follow her. She flitted around the street corners so quickly John swore she was playing a game with him. Soon, he was panting for breath as she turned the last corner and disappeared. He stopped suddenly, spinning around. How hard could it be to find a woman in a blood red Victorian dress in modern London?


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock walked into the brothel surprised by how little it had changed. Even the man who took his money didn't seem to have changed at all. Again, he followed his nose to the same room he went to all those years ago.

A woman as sitting in front of a dingy mirror doing her makeup. Sherlock began to breathe hard, panting for breath as he stepped closer and closer. She wasn't beautiful or sexy, her breasts were too fake and her arse too flat. But Sherlock didn't notice this. He could only smell how intoxicating she was. She was just his type. He reached out to grab her shoulder. This was all too perfect.

"You're right. It is all too perfect."

Sherlock spun around gasping and the prostitute behind him screamed.

"How have you been sweetie?"

Irene was on the windowsill, her legs swinging back and forth, scraping along the carpet. She jumped down without a sound and glided towards Sherlock.

"Not even a hello?" she pouted. "I have missed you so."

Sherlock was paralyzed with such a strange mixture of emotions he couldn't even begin to comprehend them all.

Irene sighed and started to circle around him. By now the other woman had run out of the room, terrified. "Fine, leave all the talking to me then. I hear you're solving crimes now. Don't look so surprised, I have been keeping tabs on you. Rather interesting man you're living with, that Doctor of yours."

"Don't you dare touch John." Sherlock growled.

"Oh, finally found your voice?" Irene smirked. "Have a bit of a soft spot for you companion hm? Shame that. It's so unbecoming for people like you and me."

"I'm not like you."

With a growl Sherlock sprang for Irene and wrapped a hand around her throat. Keeping the same momentum he slammed her against the wall and pinned her there.

"I am NOT like you!" he hissed. "I feel things, I love people. You, you kill and you love it." he spat.

"I... I didn't kill you..." Irene choked.

Sherlock dropped his hand and stepped back.

"I wish you had." he whispered.

Irene barely managed not to roll her eyes. "Don't be so dramatic."

She moved closer to Sherlock and started to slide her hands over his damp shirt up.

"You have me to love." she purred and slowly popped the buttons of his shirt one by one. Sherlock couldn't move.

She slid off his shirt completely as she started to kiss all over his face.

"You want to know something interesting?" Irene asked between kisses. Sherlock growled in response.

"We can drink from each other too." She bit his neck lightly, but hard enough to draw blood.

Sherlock gasped but didn't try to stop her. He didn't feel the pain of the bite, it actually felt... good. Like a sense that this was perfectly alright and he should accept it. And maybe try it himself.

Irene pulled back from his neck and start kissing his face again, smearing it with his own blood.

Sherlock started to kiss back then move slowly down to her neck.

Irene gasped in mock surprise as he sunk his teeth in.

Not the same taste as human blood, but still gave him the same feeling, that euphoric rush with a dash of adrenaline. Unable to control himself he bit hard until blood began to stain Irene's already crimson gown.

Now Irene really did gasp in surprise and pain as well. "Sherlock! Oh god, what the hell are you doing?" she hissed. She tilted her head back and howled in pain as blood rapidly drained from her body.

"Sherlock stop! Help, somebody! Ohgodgodgod!" she cried, quickly growing weaker and more and more frightened.

With a crash John burst through the door and ran for Sherlock and Irene lying on the floor.

"Sherlock stop! This isn't right!"

Sherlock pulled his teeth out of Irene's neck and let her fall to the ground, unconscious.

"John, what the hell are you doing here?" Blood was dripping off his face and down his neck and he looked absolutely mad.

"She led me here. Who is she anyway?" He ran to Irene and dropped to his knees by her arm, checking her pulse.

"We don't have a pulse John." Sherlock growled.

"Well how the fuck am I supposed to tell if she's alive then?"

Sherlock shrank back. John could apologize later.

"Is her blood still red?"

John could still see her slowly bleeding out of her neck and it didn't seem like it would be stopping anytime soon.

"Yes. Why?" he said while pulling off his jacket. "Give me your shirt."

Sherlock handed it over. "Most of our blood turns black when we die, and I can tell when one of our kind is dying. She'll live." he muttered, clearly agitated.

"Wait one of your kind? What's that supposed to mean?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "She's like me. John, meet Irene."

John looked shocked and he glanced down at her. "Irene? The Irene?"

"Yes the bitch Irene." he growled. "Why are you still trying to save her? I told you she would live, let's just leave." he stood up, folding his arms.

"That's wrong Sherlock. What if someone found her before she woke up?" John glared at him.

"Mycroft would take care of it. Let's go." he pulled on John's arm.

"Sherlock! We can not just leave her here!"

"Yes we can! She destroyed my life, and I'll end her's!" Sherlock tried to lunge for Irene, but even with his superhuman speed he couldn't get there before John pulled out his gun and aimed it right at Sherlock's head.

"What's wrong with you? Let me finish this!"

"Me! Sherlock, you're trying to murder someone!"

"She's not even a real person! Let me end this now!"

John cocked his gun and moved it closer to Sherlock's temple.

"I'm not afraid to kill you."

"Is that really what you want to do? To kill? To become like me?"

"I'm a soldier, I already am like you."

"But could you do it? Could you kill someone you love?"

John's hand shook and he blinked tears from his eyes.

"What about you? Could you?" John asked. "Really, could you?"

Irene groaned behind them and started to wake up and move.

"Yes. Don't make me have to kill you as well John." Sherlock hissed.

Sherlock screamed and fell to the ground as a bullet impacted with his leg.

"I'm sorry. But I can't let you do that." John whispered and lowered his gun.

He turned to Irene who was now fully awake and staring at Sherlock, wide eyed.

"It's alright. I won't hurt you." John tried to reach out for her, but she was already at the window and getting ready to jump.

"No!" John cried and jumped up as Irene jumped out. He rushed to the window to watch Irene sprinting down the street.

Lestrade rushed in moments later to find John kneeling over Sherlock putting pressure on his leg.

"Shit... What happened?" Lestrade asked.

"Long story. But there's a woman like Sherlock out there. She's probably bleeding to death in the streets. Can Mycroft find her and bring her in while she's still weak?"

"On it. I'll have a stretcher up in a few." Lestrade left the room as quickly as he had come in.

Moments later an ambulance pulled up the building and medic team carried a still unconscious Sherlock out. At first John had tried to hold them back, skeptical about whether they could be trusted or not. Mycroft came in soon after to reassure him.

"No need to worry. They are my own personal medical team. They won't be taking him to a public hospital. Not after what happened last time." he looked around the blood-splattered room and shook his head. "Tsk. What a mess."

"He'll be ok, right?" John asked when he finally found his voice.

"Hmm? Who, Sherlock? Of course, he's bounced back from far worse. He'll back to being an annoying prick in no time at all." Mycroft strode out of the room. "But let's hope he takes his time healing up."

Much to Mycroft's dismay, Sherlock did not take his time and was trying to break out of his private hospital after only three days. On the fourth day he couldn't take any more of Sherlock's whining and sent him back to 221B Baker Street.

"John." Sherlock nodded at him coldly as he limped into their flat.

"Sherlock..." John looked down at his feet, grimacing as he tried to think of what to say.

"We need to go to Scotland Yard." Sherlock stated. John took it as his version of accepting his unspoken apology.

"Mycroft found her."

John's head snapped up. "Really? Are you sure you can-"

"Yes." Sherlock looked like he was about the run all the way to the Yard, with or without John. "Yes. Let's go, Lestrade is waiting."

Before John could even think, Sherlock grabbed his hand and dragged him down the stairs to one of Mycroft's cars waiting for them.

Sherlock was quiet the whole ride over, but John could see him twitching with excitement and muttering to himself every few minutes. He jumped out of the car before the driver had completely stopped in front of Scotland Yard and limped as fast as he could to the doors, leaving John jogging after him.

"Come on John!" Sherlock called back.

"Jesus, Sherlock what's the rush?" John asked as they reached the basement holding cells of the building. Lestrade was waiting for them at the entrance.

Sherlock didn't answer. "Where is she?" he asked Lestrade instead.

"Follow me." Lestrade started walking towards the cells, but Sherlock brushed past him, his nose in the air. Lestrade scowled but didn't say anything.

Sherlock turned suddenly and stopped in front of a door. "Hurry up." he snapped.

"Are you sure you can do this? Can you control yourself?" John asked, touching his arm.

Sherlock looked back at him with a blank and expressionless face but his eyes were shining with fear.

"Yes." he whispered, hoping his voice wasn't shaking too badly.

Lestrade sighed and unlocked the cell door.

Irene was sitting with her legs cross in the middle of the bright cell, her eyes shut tightly. Her crimson dress was gone and she was only wearing a long white skirt and corset stained with her own blood. She opened one eye as she heard the heavy metal door swing open.

"Three strong men and one woman in a prison cell, what could go wrong?" she purred.

Sherlock glared at her with such fury that John almost felt the anger rolling off of him.

"Lestrade, may I be alone with our guest?" he hissed. "I have a few questions to ask her."

The DI shrugged, clearly not noticing the tension in the room. "Whatever."

Sherlock shoved them out before John could even protest. Lestrade closed the door after them.

"What the fuck? Lestrade, you can't leave them in there alone! He'll kill her!" John yelled.

Lestrade started walking away down the hall. "No. No, he won't. He's got too many questions, he won't kill her. He wants a fight and not while she's still weak. Maybe you don't know him as well as you think, John." he called.

John stood in the hall, stunned by his words.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock paced around Irene, still sitting in her meditating pose.

"Why?"

"You're going to have to be a little more specific."

"Why didn't you kill me that night?"

"Cause you're damn sexy and I couldn't bear to see you die." she smirked.

"That's not a legitimate reason."

Irene sighed. "Call it a moment of weakness on my part. Don't worry, it very rarely happens."

"What were you hoping to achieve by meeting me at the brothel last night?"

"The question is love, what made you go there? I am irrelevant." she smiled and looked up at him.

"You are not 'irrelevant'. You were the one that made me into this." he gestured to his whole body with a grimace.

She shook her head. "Decades later and you still don't understand?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

Irene stood up and circled around Sherlock. "Don't you remember? It was your birthday and your friends sent you to wait for me after the party. Do you recall what friend told you to wait?"

Sherlock glared at the wall as he struggled to recollect what had happened that night. He had tried to delete it from his memory, but some things were impossible to forget.

"Jim... His name was Jim. A fellow author. I never knew his last name."

"Good. And didn't you think he was a bit odd or eccentric? Maybe even a little scary?"

"How do you know so much about him?"

Irene giggled and spun in circles around Sherlock with her hands in the air, balancing on her bare toes.

"Oh I know him sooooo well. You see dearest, he's my husband." she laughed. "Well was my husband. Until you killed him just a few months ago."

Sherlock gasped involuntary.

Irene stopped in front of his face.

"Irene Moriarty." she grinned. "Hi!"

Sherlock swung the door open so quickly it almost hit John in the face. Another officer ran to lock the door behind them. Sherlock grabbed John's arm and dragged him down the hall.

"We're leaving. Now!" he snarled.

Dazed, John did his best to follow and they climbed into a cab, Sherlock still clinging to his arm. Sherlock looked like he was about to bite the cabby's head off, so John did his best to calm him down.

"What did she say? Sherlock what's wrong?"

"Moriarty." he muttered.

John froze. "W-what?" he stammered.

"You heard me. Jim Moriarty and Irene Moriarty, undead husband and wife. Clearly she's trying to exact revenge on me for killing her husband. But this goes deeper and farther back. All those years ago, why did Jim have her change me? Or was I a mistake?"

"Sherlock?"

"Am I supposed to be dead and Jim was trying to kill me because his wife failed? If that is the case why didn't he kill me earlier? He's had a century and a half. What are his organization's motives now?"

"Sherlock!"

"Why now? Why? This makes no sense. Why me? Why chose to change me then ignore me for years? I could have been a minion or a slave even. What were his motives? And what are his wife's motives?"

"Sherlock, breathe!"

Sherlock gasped for air. "Right," he panted. "Breathing."

"Thank you. Now, don't worry. Jim is dead and Irene is locked up in Scotland Yard."

Sherlock's mobile phone made a little ping as he received a text message. He read over it quickly then groaned, leaning back against his seat.

"What?" John asked and Sherlock handed his phone over.

IRENE GONE. SURVEILLANCE CAMERAS DESTROYED, TWO MEN DEAD.

- MH

"Shit." John muttered, rubbing his eyes. "What are we going to do?"

Sherlock took back his cell phone and began rapidly typing.

"We wait."


	8. Chapter 8

Hours later, back in their flat, Sherlock was lying on the couch, deep in thought, and John was hopping around the house, trying his best to stay calm.

"John, please! Relax; there is nothing we can do at the moment." Sherlock rumbled without opening his eyes.

John sighed and sank into his favourite chair. "I know."

With a jolt Sherlock sat up, his eyes wide open. "She's here."

He rushed for the door, ignoring his coat.

"What?" John jumped up. "What do you mean she's here? How can you tell?"

"I can smell her! We need to act fast!" he called from the front door, his voice slightly muffled by the distance.

"Damn it!" John ran after Sherlock, thankful he had kept his gun in his pocket. He didn't bother to grab his coat either.

"Sherlock! You can't keep doing this to me!" John yelled to try and stop him, but he already racing down an alley about a block away from their flat. John suppressed a sigh and chased after him. He reached the dark, empty street in time to see Irene dancing around a transfixed Sherlock. He had his back turned and John couldn't see what Sherlock's expression was. John froze and ducked behind a wall, straining to listen to their murmurings, praying Irene was too preoccupied to smell where he was. He turned his head to look at what she was doing.

Irene had stopped dancing and was pressing close to Sherlock, her arms around his neck, almost grinding against him. John couldn't help but hiss in a jealous rage. She didn't kiss him, but moved close to his ear to whisper something. John could barely read her lips in the pale light.

"My turn."

John saw her move down to his neck and open her mouth wide. John reacted on instinct, raising his gun to aim at her temple. With a flash that lit up the alley for no more than a second, Sherlock jumped back and Irene fell to the ground, her black blood running through her hair into the puddle she had landed in.

"John..." Sherlock breathed.

John rushed to Sherlock's side and wrapped his arms around his waist, pulling him close.

"You idiot. You fucking idiot." he growled into Sherlock's shirt.

Taken aback, Sherlock didn't know what to do and just patted John on the head, making him laugh.

"I think that's Lestrade texting me now." John looked down at his jacket pocket as it lit up.

"Ignore it. He and Mycroft can clean this up." He scowled down at Irene. "Easy enough. No one will be looking for her."

"Let's go. God, I need tea." John muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.

"When was the last time you slept?"

"What is today?" John blinked, truly confused.

Sherlock laughed. "Oh god, you're turning into me!"

John laughed too. "Shut up! I am not! I'm not, right? You didn't bite me in the middle of the night or something, right?" he looked genuinely concerned.

Sherlock smirked at him. "No, no I didn't. But, if you're suggesting, I'd be more than willing to-"

"One step at a time Sherlock."


End file.
